


concrete feet

by scrapbullet



Category: Inception (2010), RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-08
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames just can't stop running. Lucky for him there's a home for him to come back to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	concrete feet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



Eames knows the taste of blood. In fact, he's become rather acquainted with it. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he'll bite his tongue to silence the screams that bubble up unbidden; nightmares and waking dreams and a terrible weight on his chest that chokes the air from his very lungs. Sometimes, he'll swallow the hot fluid, like cranberries and pomegranates, like metal and copper and the impersonal chill of a gun barrel against the roof of his mouth. Sometimes he'll swallow.

Eames knows the taste of memories. In fact, he knows it well. Sometimes, when Mombasa is no more than fleeting sound and shape and memories, he'll remember. Sometimes, when the poker chip between his fingers promises more than just winnings, he'll recall the way mischief had once danced in Mal's eyes, and the way she had cupped her pregnant belly and smiled. Cobb had been proud, Arthur had been smitten and Eames had fell, fell hard and skinned his knee's for a family, for a home. Eames knows the taste; like something bitter intermingled with something sweet, like gristle and GSR, like salt and strawberries on his tongue.

Eames knows the taste of regret, of promises unkept. He knows the taste of a sigh on his lips and the rain on his face. He knows the touch of love, of friendship, of cowardice.

It is the latter he flirts with so dangerously.

Cowardice.

Yes, Eames is a coward.

He runs, and it's a dance. He walks, and it's a battle. He stands still and the whole world stands still with him, their eyes centred, focused, intent. And when he moves his pawn, they too shall follow.

But Eames always runs.

It's what he does best.

It's in his blood.

Ah... but what kind of man runs and never stops? What kind of man has no hearth and home?

Even Eames has a place to call his own.

Or he did, once.

It's raining, and Eames is soaked through to the bone. His hair is plastered to his face and thunder claps loudly in the distance before tapering off into a gentle roar. Light, suffusing him with warmth, shines through the windows off-set with the ugly drapes Yusuf had bought and Johnny had hung; crooked, mismatched and worn, much like their odd little relationship.

Not for the first time, Eames asks himself why he does this. Why does he run?

 _Rat-a-tat-tat_. His knuckles rap against the door. A pause. Yusuf's rumbling laughter taints the pitter-pat of rain against his skull but it's Johnny that opens it, greets him with eyebrow cocked and emotive eyes asking him _well, and where have you been you naughty boy?_ Behind him Yusuf is stoic, his palms resting on Johnny's shoulders and Eames _aches_.

He breathes; in, and out.

They make this look so much easier on television.

"You took your time," Yusuf says, and though his tone is deceptively light there is meaning in his words; _but you came back._ And oh, of course he did, why did he even leave? How could Eames leave Yusuf's warmth and Johnny's sarcasm? How could he leave that bloody cat, the cat that purrs and twines round his feet, mewing up at him as if he's come home with tuna in his basket and catnip under his fingernails?

Eames clears his throat, slips into the mask as if it were finely tailored Savile Row. Not that it matters; Johnny and Yusuf can see right through him, transparent as glass and just as fragile, though Eames will vehemently deny such a thing if it were to ever come up in polite conversation. They know well the various projections of a man that has spent so long hiding; know well even if disappointment weighs heavy in their chests.

Eames tastes blood, he tastes memories; fresh and old and new, like a punch in the gut and a bruising kiss on the mouth.

He tastes regret.

"You wouldn't happen to have room for one more, would you?"

When Johnny and Yusuf step aside it is forgiveness, and a welcome home.


End file.
